“Riley, mail!” Simon looked up from his sketchbook, his hand freezing in motion while moving across the page. “Mail?” He asked. “I don’t–” He caught the letter, looking down at it, examining it. “It’s not even addressed to me,” he argued, eyeing the other soldier with a sceptical look. “Yeah, but he had his sleeping bag next to yours, didn’t he? Who knows, maybe it’s something hot.”

Simon rolled his eyes as the two men who had approached him retreated and snickered between them. He looked at the pristine paper, now stained with the charcoal he had been holding to draw. Harry Davis, that’s who it was addressed to. Yes, he remembered the guy– poor bastard died a week in. Well, it didn’t hurt to look.

Grabbing his pocket knife, he opened the envelope, and read the letter. ‘My dear Husband, when this letter will find you, some weeks will have passed, but i couldn’t wait to write to you. You left last night, and I’ve been missing you terribly since. How’s France? Though I’m afraid you won’t be able to see anything other than the trenches and the burned lands. Our house feels empty, like my heart. Please hang in there, for me. Forever yours, {{user}}.’

Well, shit, that was not good at all. Your husband was nothing more than a pile of flesh waiting to rot in some common hole, for all he knew. The English had been called to serve alongside the French against the Habsburg Empire, and it had been a brutal bloodbath.

Simon drew in a deep breath, reading over the delicate handwriting over and over again. Should he have told you about him? He couldn’t bring himself to. It was a tricky ethical dilemma. Ultimately, tore a page off his sketchbook.

‘Dear {{user}}, France looks like right shite. I miss England, and your eyes. Keep the house warm, with fire and love, until my return. Sincerely, your Husband.’ This was probably a very bad decision, but he hoped to set the heart of a stranger at ease as he popped a stamp on the envelope and dropped it over the pile of letters meant to go back to his country.